


A Momentary Lapse of Reason

by Cornerofmadness



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22812208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cornerofmadness/pseuds/Cornerofmadness
Summary: A lapse of reason has brought them to these dire straits.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2020





	A Momentary Lapse of Reason

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** Not mine, Chris Fedak and Sam Sklaver owns it 
> 
> **Notes:** written for brumeier for the prompt of Prodigal Son, Any, A Momentary Lapse of Reason (Pink Floyd). This is set within _Eye of the Needle & Death's Door_ so spoilers for both.

XXX

Martin had never imagined he’d be standing where he was now. This scenario had never once crossed his mind. Oh, he’d thought he could end up on the wrong end of a knife. There were people in Claremont who’d shiv anyone for an extra helping of mashed potatoes in the cafeteria but he remained mostly isolated from them except for group therapy and he was guarded to and from those. If anyone was to stick a blade into him, Martin thought it would have been John and that was two decades ago.

That fateful camping trip had gone so wrong and so right at the same time. He knew three were going into the woods– the girl not counted in that – and only two would go home. It had been hard. He’d gotten Malcolm that knife as a last treat, one last time to see his boy smile. He’d nearly turned the station wagon around a dozen times because he didn’t want to murder his boy. There were very few things in his life that had ever mattered to him that were outside of himself. His intelligence, his skill with the scalpel, the lives he saved, the lives he took, he was proud of it all but that was all him. Malcolm was his but still outside of him. It had shocked him how much he loved his boy, from the moment he’d been put in Martin’s arms, a squirming six-pound bundle of wailing lungs. 

He only hadn’t turned around because he expected John to stab him right there in the car to protect himself. He knew once Watkins understood he couldn’t kill Malcolm it would have come down to him or Watkins. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to talk John down once he realized killing Malcolm was off the table. He and John had survived similar pain. It’s what had bound them and it made John trust him. John’s horrible grandparents, his own abusive father and all the terrible things he’d done to Martin, it was something they shared. It was important to him to be better than his father and he had been. He’d been nothing but kind to Malcolm and Ainsley. He took his rages out on his victims, not his precious children. He loved Malcolm but every other minute of the trip to the cabin he was sure he’d have to kill Malcolm to save himself. He spent the drive imagining where to push in the knife so Malcom wouldn’t suffer. It had been the hardest drive of his life. 

Once there he had another momentary lapse of reason and told John they wouldn’t be killing Malcolm. It hadn’t gone well. He couldn’t have been more surprised or proud when Malcolm stabbed John and left him to die in the river. That was _his_ boy, the one he knew Malcolm could be if properly groomed. Only the event had traumatized Malcolm so badly he couldn’t even remember what happened by the time the sun rose. He let Malcolm live and as he had said to him and Jessie just a few moments ago, he’d been paying for it ever since. This is where his lapse of judgement had led him; hinting to his son where to stab him in hopes he’d survive it. 

Martin stared into Malcolm’s eyes, those cold, blue, empty eyes and tried not to smile. This is the son he’d wanted, the one who could hold a knife – oh look how steady his hand was – and use it without compunction. Malcolm had never been that man and Martin had despaired of him ever manifesting his true potential. But here they were in front of Jessica’s horrified eyes, father and son with an ice pick between them.

“My boy,” he said with so much pride he thought he’d burst.

It was so quick, feeling more like a punch than anything and then he was falling. Dying. And his bad choices had led him here, expiring on the floor of an insane asylum but finally Malcolm was the man Martin always knew he could be.

X X X

What had he done? Malcolm stared through the window in the door to his father’s ICU room. Had he and his mother both let their reason take flight? Why would she ever believe a killer who murdered a man in front of her in spite of her dumping a million dollars on the ground as he asked her to do to earn his hostage’s freedom? He hadn’t earned her trust. She would have every reason to believe he’d kill his other hostage even if she stabbed his father and yet she showed up at Claremont.

Why hadn’t he called Gil? They could have faked the whole thing. By the time Wheaton realized it was a set-up, they’d be on him before he could get back to his hostage to kill her. Why did he never, ever, call for backup? It didn’t have to end up here. He could go to prison or his mother could because she was telling anyone who listened it was her who had stabbed Martin Whitly. She would do anything to protect him and Malcolm knew that. Why had he stabbed his father when there were other options? 

Time, they hadn’t much in the way of time, but enough for a phone call, one that could have arranged to take his father to the morgue and just wait for Wheaton to show up. No, he’d let his father goad him. Martin Whitly had known exactly what he was doing. Oh, he didn’t want to die but he’d always wanted Malcolm to follow in his footsteps. He knew which buttons to push to steal away Malcolm’s good sense. 

_Come on, boy!_ , that saccharine mocking tone had been a weapon. Martin pulled the trigger and stood in front of the gun. He might die if Malcolm’s hand had been off-target but even if he did, he’d die knowing he’d finally gotten what he wished for; a son as brutal as he was.

Malcolm stared through the window, listening to the heart monitor’s beeping. Every part of this was wrong. He should have thought it through differently. He should have been better, smarter. He should have trusted his team. He shouldn’t care that a serial killer might die. He had failed at each and every one of those things and he was going to pay a steep price. He couldn’t help but think he deserved it. In that moment everything had changed and he couldn’t wind it back. He listened to his father’s heartbeat and his hand resumed its shaking. What had he done?


End file.
